


Hic Et Ubique

by sea_sighs



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25058062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_sighs/pseuds/sea_sighs
Summary: Kelly turns, his hands liquid copper and his expression empty. He levels his gaze around the room and when he exhales the room exhales with him.Blake’s stomach turns.He understands what he sees now.In other words:A victorian era AU set in AustraliaWhere William Schofield is Ned KellyAnd Tom Blake is a gardenerUpdated fortnightly
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Writing and posting from a phone is the most feral thing i have ever done. I hope you enjoy!! Comments, constructive criticism (this is unbetaed af) and inhuman screeches are always appreciated

In the room there is this;

The red faces, jeering and posturing.

In the middle, Kelly. His body moves, writhes, fights, fucks, the sinews shifting across his spine, exhaling to full length.

Then Blake. He is accompanied by the feeling Horror. It shrouds his every step, following, following, following, until it moves past the forest of people. Past the clamour, the colour, the cacophony. All until it reaches the clearing grounds of his friend. His Kelly. 

Blake is not supposed to be here. It feels like those moments you would never see yourself. But now that you are here, in this place, in this moment, it is obvious that the trajectory of your fate would land you here.

Kelly turns, his hands liquid copper and his expression empty. He levels his gaze around the room and when he exhales the room exhales with him.

Blake’s stomach turns.

He understands what he sees now.

Kelly is triumphant, exultant, living, killing, dead.

//

3 weeks before.

Blake startles in the marble dark of 4 am, clutching his chest, gasping. He scrabbles for something there. Left pocket, left pocket, left-

He sighs. Paper crinkling in his hands.

Relief.

He glimpses at the two other souls that share this bare room, not alone but sleeping. Their soft snores wafting through the dark. Outside, the dawn stains the night a deep dark blue. Between his clutched hands, familiar words.

_Dear brother_ -

It reads. _I bet mum's already named the litter. I don't know why she does it, since we're always giving them away. But maybe it's-_

Blake sighs, putting forehead to paper and closing his eyes.

- _maybe it's easier. I don't know. All I hope is-_

_All I hope is-_

Nothing.

Blake severs the thought with a sharp exhale. Stuffs the paper between the mattress and the frame; separate, hidden. Safe. He rises, glancing at the spot. 

His fingers are a scant brush away from the letter, and his mind a scant brush away from the end. But he moves off. There is no time for that, Blake thinks and, this is no place for that. 

The foreign warmth that envelopes him outside of his bed reminds him of the fact. In England,a morning this dark would be wet and cold, the mist rising from the morning dew, the chill sinking by his nape. He does not shiver as he stands, here he sweats. 

He'll shovel the beds this morning, it'd be easier that way.

//

Blake returns from the brightening quiet of the grounds to find himself in a storm of steps and servants shouting. The whole place teems with black and white uniforms, a swarm of starlings set not in the sky, but marble, white marble. He is awash with the smell of polish and soap and sweat. He wipes his brow, exhales. 

He is tired. 

But he comes to himself, sees the maids scrubbing the floors and unlaces his shoes. He leaves them by the door, muddied as they are. No one notices his socked feet or at least if they do, they don't care for it. They swan in and out of Blake's periphery, expressions pinched with focus. 

Something big is happening. He hears snippets of it from the three footmen smoking by the back door.

"-I knew it! I knew it! I told you-"

"-Nobody would have thought-"

"-especially since-"

They speak lowly, hurriedly, with the native music of the people here. Their words though play out like dirge. Blake makes a step towards them. 

"I wonder how the lady will receive him-"

"You know we can't say that"

On closer inspection, there is a youthfulness there, that clings to their cheeks, reddish and taut. They're only a little bit older than him, Blake realises. It give him courage enough to ask-

"What's going on?"

Apprehension splashes across their faces.

"You don't know?" The youngest of the bunch responds, just as the tallest says-

"Nothing"

The tallest shoves the youngest with a withering glare.

"Nothing." He continues, " We were just leaving" 

"But-" 

"Thomas!"

The youngest one begins but he's cut off by a clear voice. Blake whips around to see the master gardener march over to him. She was an older lady by the name of Mrs. Child, hair greying, skin flowering with freckles under the Australian sun. Her wrinkles usually pulled in a warm smile are criss-crossed. Wound tight. Crumpled into a spot. Not good. Blake glances back at the footman but they've already moved off. Blake feels like he's tripped on air.

"Sorry, marm," Blake turns fully to her "I had thought to fix-"

"No time, no time. Listen after you break fast, you are to check the greenhouse is tidy, and the heaters and coolers are in perfect order. Check the downstairs displays and after that meet Jondalar by the eastern entrance for the rounds. This must all be done before two pm. Should it take longer, you use the corridors. Do not be seen." The words come off less like an instruction and more of a warning. After a beat, her gaze softens, as if truly seeing him for the first time. She shoots him a small smile "You best clean up Thomas. There's a pair of clean shoes in the greenhouse"

Then she is moving again, down the corridor and out of sight before Blake can even think to ask. He glances around the room, hoping another servant can explain. Blake's halfway into bothering a dairy maid when the bell for breakfast chimes.

He finds no answer in the rush that follows, too busy avoiding pots and burning pans, and crates of vegetables and fruits being shuttled along the back passes of the house. He reaches the hall to find most of the staff already seated. The chattering low, the air thick with body heat and something like unease.

The head butler appears, standing at the far end of the table. The conversations dull into a hush and Blake takes his seat at the back.

"By now I imagine the news has already reached you"

"Mr. Hopkins, why weren't we told earlier?" A particularly mousy servant asks. Her eyes are wide with worry. Mr. Hopkins sees her expression and a grimace twists his lips.

"I had only received the telegram upon waking but it may be a blessing in disguise. Our duties remain our duties, nothing has changed. You will service Lord Braybrook and his company as you have done with guests previous; with grace and charm and without complaint."

He heaves a sigh. Bowed by an invisible burden. Hopkins raises his eyes, passing over every face in the room. With a finality of a door closed shut, he speaks

"Thank you for your attention"

And, with a curt nod, he leaves.

Blake with no other choices and with a distinct sense of desperation, asks the person next to him.

"Who is Lord Braybrook and why's everyone afraid of 'im?"

She looks startled, cheeks half full with food already. By the looks of her apron and the sweat that's already gathered by her cowlicks, she was a scullery maid. She swallows the mouthful, face breaking open in a smirk.

"You're joking."

Frustration bleeds into his curiousity, his voice an edge sharper than it should.

"I was out in the garden. Didn't hear"

The scullery maid stares at him then bursts into sharpish laughter, like broken glass thrown down the stairs.

"Oh lordy you really don't know. Braybrook... He's the owner of the estate."

//

Mia, as he comes to know her over breakfast, explains why it was a Lady "Grayson" and not a Braybrook that employed him.

_Lady's a widow, thats her maiden name. But I hardly think she'd go around telling that._

_Sister, then?_

Mia hums, agreeing.

_After the funeral, she came back here. Hasn't gone anywhere since. Can't say the same for the lord. Always moving about, him._

He wonders what it would have been like. Growing up in Adams End. A week in and the place resists being described as familiar. Beyond the servants' passes, the mansion was a space to exist in, to walk in, to even admire in, but never to stay in. Never truly to live in. With what it's windows looking inwards and the walls weeping with white stucco. 

Blake prefers the tunnels he moves through now. They're cramped, and wooden and imperfect but they are not like the rooms, empty and silent and smelling of dust, though there is no dust to be seen. 

He reaches the last of the galleries, the place cavernous. Dowdy curtains blocking most of the piercing heat of the afternoon sun. Spears of light stripe the floors and walls. There is enough light to see the space by. 

_Came back here eventually, like his sister, and stayed for a while too. Thought he'd settle but last year…_

She leans in, voice low

_They says he killed a man in a fit._

Mia straightens as another servant passes behind her. Then leans low again.

_Everybody has a story. The women with the Lady says he killed a man because of her. Coachman says it had been a wager, turned duel. You know how they are about honour_.

Blake comes to the last display, a bouquet of yellow roses set underneath a portrait. The plaque reads Lord Braybrook.

_I think it's cause he wanted to though. Just wanted to. You never know with their sort._

Blank blue eyes stare down at Blake from underneath sandy hair. He is void of expression. Lips carefully neutral. He has all the trappings of a noble, vested in a white military uniform and winking black boots. But there is something within his expression that chills Blake. He quickly tears his eyes away.

The bouquet beneath seems to wilt under its attention. Blake tops it up with the last of his water, and drops in a penny into the vase. It should last a little longer now. He takes a step back and wipes the sweat gathered by his nape.

With nothing else to distract him from his tasks, there comes a slow rolling awareness. The ache he's been carrying for the past two hours strikes him then. The shoes were a size too small. He grimaces. Then he glances at his watch, a quarter to two. Still time.

Decided, Blake whips off his shoes, wincing at the dark colour by his right pinkie. Bleeding. 

He shakes the worry off, sure that Jondalar would have some supplies. He had to move quickly now. Blake ties the laces together and hitches it over his left shoulder. With his right hand he picks up the empty watering can. Hurriedly, he pads over to the nearest door, his mind carving a path out to the eastern entrance.

Then he freezes.

There comes a wild whistling, and heavy steps. Not seen, yet heard. A guest. Blake checks his watch again. They must have come early.

A slow building panic grows in Blake as he stumbles back from the exit. His mind races for the nearest servants' passage, his eyes flicking to blank blue ones. Staring, staring, staring.

Blake remembers. There was one right beyond the door. If he was quick, he might not be seen. The clacking on the floor becomes more pronounced. A melody coming into clarity. Blake feels his stomach turn.

The moment had to be now. He makes for the door, opening and-

A man.

A gaunt man stands on the other side. 

There is a short sort of relief, knowing it is not Braybrook. But then the man turns to him and suddenly that feeling is snatched away.

The stranger's eyes are a startling shade of blue, long seeing, and yet carefully blank. They are brooked with a long nose and thick blunt lips. His neck is flecked with red, the collar of a red shirt hidden under a tan breasted coat. Looking at him, Blake feels like he's just missed a step on the stairs, a whooping in his stomach.

The man steps forward into the room but Blake suddenly forgets how to step back. Blank and blank and blank. The man notices. His expression tightening fractionally.

Then a smile.

It shows no teeth, no thoughts, but it feels dangerous all the same. Blake's heart riots in his chest. The man's hands, large, curl into fists. He breathes slowly in. Tom breathes with him. 

Entranced. 

Without a thought of class or propriety, a word escapes his lips, like a leaf catching the wind.

"Hello." Tom says and

it is the beginning of everything.


	2. Update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author update sorry to disappoint

Uh so I massively overestimated my writing abilities and undestimated how big of a draft this whole thing would grow. Life has also been kicking my tush. I just felt you guys deserved an update on the sitch and a better chapter/character arc/trajectory than I had originally planned.

On the bright side, the whole story has been plotted out.

On the down side, chapter 1 will be getting a makeover lol

At any rate, thanks for reading this far & I hope to see you soon!!

All my love, ss.

**Author's Note:**

> If you digged the work consider checking out Diptych my other work. Come shout at me @star-burp.tumblr.com or here. And finally tank you so much for reading! And hopefully see you all next week!!


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